Never Gonna Be The Same PTSD
by VillainousVexation
Summary: Evey and V's relationship can pretty much be defined by posttraumatic stress disorder. Each chapter will by a new symptom. Some chapters more smutty than others. AND IT IS FINALLY FIXED! AND ACTUALLY READABLE!
1. Nightmares

Every chapter will be one of the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Just FYI

Disclaimer: If V were mine, halfway through the movie someone in the audience would have said, 'Hey, why is that short girl tackling V and dragging him offscreen?' None of it is. Alan Moore, Wachowski Brothers, David Lloyd, Vertigo, and men in scary business suits own V and Evey. I just think naughty thoughts and giggle to myself evilly. I am making no money off of this. I do this instead of my homework. Please do not sue me. I have no money, and my organs have been tainted by smoking and alcohol, making them unsaleable on the black market.

"History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake."

- James Joyce

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Part 1: Nightmares

Most nights, V would wake up screaming. (twenty years twenty bloody years later and he would still wake up screaming) Groping blindly in the dark. (fighting off the ghosts of those long dead killed by his own hand they deserved it every single one of them they all took pieces of him) Then the shaking, which would sometimes last all night. The sheets would be soaked. (sometimes in his panic he would think they were soaked with blood whose blood was hardly the point) The rest of the night would be spent staring into the darkness until he could will his body to obey him.

But after Evey came, he had to alter his nightly routine. She was frightened enough of him without being woken up in the dead of night by his tortured, broken howls. (she looked at him and he drowned voice failing mind still nothing just her) After all, she had been put off by his apron (those eyes always watching always watching can she see behind the mask am i the mask), and that was probably the least terrifying thing about him.

For a while he barely slept at all, trying desperately to convince himself that he didn't need it. (ideas do not sleep not human only men need sleep i am not a man i am less and more and nothing in between) But even V needed to sleep on occasion - he was not confident enough to work around highly explosive material when he could barely count to five. When he finally allowed himself to collapse onto his much-missed bed, he allowed himself to hope that his rest would be uneventful.

It was much worse. Instead of Larkhill, (fire) and twenty years of darkness, he dreamt of her. (her). All those years of convincing himself he was beyond such things (they would never happen anyway not to him dear god look at him), and one wry smile from her shot the whole thing to hell. He dreamt of her. (beneath him writhing mindlessly how could she feel such pleasure she was on fire beneath him his hands hands burned and mutilated could make her back arch and silent screams of ecstasy pour forth)

(his mouth on her firm smooth skin so pale being underground accentuated that she was like one of his statues her hands her hands everywhere caressing and torturing him punishing him he deserved it deserved it all sex and death he killed them now she would kill him and he would thank her with his last gasping breath) The first morning he woke up after such a nightly adventure, his immediate thought was, 'Bollocks.'

Now his fear was that Evey would wake up to the sound of his moans, (did he moan he must moan how could he not moan even in his sleep she brought him to his knees broke him he would weep to be inside her kill die beg just to feel one moment's peace inside her) or that one horrible incident when he fell off the bed and ended up scrambling across the floor to frantically make sure the door was locked. It was.

The day after she left him, he was sure the dreams would end. The day after that terrible betrayal, (for him Evey for HIM he wanted to rape you fuck you degrade you even in my dreams you are a goddess i am not worthy to touch to look at you killed something that i thought had died decades ago and the wound is still raw) he crawled between his clean sheets convinced that he would wake up untroubled. Evey had exorcised Larkhill, and now she herself had essentially been exorcised from his home. (he could have killed her did he want to kill her or fuck her or love her was there a difference anymore)

V woke up screaming, his throat raw and hoarse. Not even a scream an animal noise he could not identify, did not want to. The sheets were soaked. Not with his sweat this time; (evey can't you leave me alone you left me and still you're inside me such a part of me how could this happen how) he was horrified, but not surprised. The darkness yawned before him. (thrusting he was crying this time why was he crying he couldn't stop didn't want to stop only the feel of her and his thrusts and the sobs ripping him apart). His head slowly returned to the pillow. That was wet too. He wasn't sweating. Only then did V start to shake.

A/N: The first story with ANY naughtiness I've written. My second story, too. I have no beta. Anything is appreciated.

Never Gonna Be The Same - Courtney Love, 'America's Sweetheart'


	2. Flashbacks

Disclaimer: If V were mine, halfway through the movie someone in the audience would have said, 'Hey, why is that short girl tackling V and dragging him offscreen?' None of it is. Alan Moore, Wachowski Brothers, David Lloyd, Vertigo, and men in scary business suits own V and Evey. I just think naughty thoughts and giggle to myself evilly. I am making no money off of this. I do this instead of my homework. Please do not sue me. I have no money, and my organs have been tainted by smoking and alcohol, making them unsaleable on the black market.

"Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth."

- Diane Ackerman

The smell sends her back. It always does. Every single time. Walking down the street on a lovely autumn day years after it all happened, her mind occupied by a million different things, (she hasn't thought of him in weeks, she swears) a single hint of that scent throws Evey Hammond back underground, slams her into his bed.

She still doesn't know how she ended up in his bed. She remembers the way to his bed, the slow steps that took her there. Hair still shorn close to her scalp, body still weak from torture and starvation. But she was strong enough to hold him to her, to keep him alive for even just a few minutes longer. She would keep him alive, keep him in this bed if she had to drag him out of hell herself.

He is slow, his movements hesitant and jerky - it is years later before it occurs to her that he was terrified. His hands move over her body reverently, pausing at the bruises he himself had inflicted on her, shaking slightly against her warm flesh. The only noise in that black, endless room is his long, unsteady breaths. She lays beneath him, feeling him shudder, feeling the battle between his mind and his body as his hands continue their uncertain journey along her breasts, his roughened fingers splaying across them with a possessiveness that breaks her heart.

He flinches whenever she touches him. Nearly leaps out of her arms when her hand slips smoothly between his legs. Now groans punctuate the silence. He wants to speak, she can tell. But there are no words, or too many words, to fill up the space between them. The noise he makes, ripped from his very soul, is one of hunger and shame. Even when his lean hips begin rocking against her hand, his breathing steady and short, his face buried in the crook of her neck, she can feel his shame. It washes over them, permeates the room. The shame of wanting her, of needing her. Needing this in a way he could never verbalize. Shame at not being strong enough to say no. Shame at wanting anything anymore, with the future rushing up to strike him. She can accept this, accept his shame. Like this night, it changes nothing.

When he moves inside her - a sudden sharp thrust, as if he is panicked that after all that, she will actually say no - she lets out a sob that seems to speak for both of them. For a long time, there is no movement. She cannot see, she cannot hear anything but his ragged breath, can feel nothing but his tortured body on top of her and inside her. This is, she realizes in an hysterical moment, the longest he has gone without speaking since she has known him.

When he finally begins to move, Evey wants him to stop. If he never begins, this will never end. They can live and die in this moment as long as he doesn't move. But she does not stop him. After a second, she doesn't want him to.

With every movement of his body inside her, every thing he does to bring her pleasure, every time he clutches her as if she can save him, Evey Hammond dies. She is crying now, calling out the only name she can call him by, her legs driving him into her, her nails digging mercilessly into his shoulders. She needs this to hurt. If he hurts her now, she can hate him. If this hurts, it will be real.

But he can't. His incoherent whispers - his voice rough, the sounds coming in time with his speeding thrusts - soothe her, and she knows she lost this battle long before she ended up in his bed. She moans helplessly, and as she cries out her pleasure, she loses herself. There is only joy, and him, still moving frantically inside her, as if he cannot bear to let it end. (Don't let it end please God. I'll give you everything if you give me this). He pulses deeply inside her, his cries as far from human as she has ever heard him. He collapses, shaking violently, his hands gripping at her reflexively.

She holds him, listening to his heartbeat and hating it. It mocks her. It is beating now, pounding in her ear. Its steady noise is only a reminder that it will one day stop. She wants him to live forever and she wants to destroy him. She could, she realizes as his fingers run gently over her lips. With one word, one look, she could destroy everything in him that had survived so long. She could stop his revolution by the smallest gesture. If she breaks him here, he will not have the strength to go on. Not when he has given her everything that makes him human.

The realization kills the urge, and she feels his heart beating. It does what it must, and so must he. Neither his heart, nor the man stroking her cheek, will think about what must be done. She can ask, beg even, but she could no more stop the procession of his life than she could stop time, or the steady music of his heart

She presses her cheek tenderly against his. Cold metal, made slightly warm from their exertions. (even in the dark, even after everything, he couldn't take off that fucking mask)

When Evey Hammond returns to herself, she has no idea how long she has been gone, standing on a street corner with a blank look on her face. She continues walking, wondering if the people can see the missing pieces he took from her, wondering if they can tell that she had him, for one night she had him. Probably not. She sighs, feeling old and ageless. Every time. The smell of roses. Every fucking time.

A/N: Not sure if I will do any more from Evey's perspective, but this sort of wrote itself. Anything is appreciated, per usual.

Never Gonna Be The Same - Courtney Love, 'America's Sweetheart'


	3. Emotional Detachment

Disclaimer: If V were mine, halfway through the movie someone in the audience would have said, 'Hey, why is that short girl tackling V and dragging him offscreen?' None of it is. Alan Moore, Wachowski Brothers, David Lloyd, Vertigo, and men in scary business suits own V and Evey. I just think naughty thoughts and giggle to myself evilly. I am making no money off of this. I do this instead of my homework. Please do not sue me. I have no money, and my organs have been tainted by smoking and alcohol, making them unsaleable on the black market.

"I often think if mirrors could give up their dead how wonderful it would be."

- Bessie Parkes Belloc

(clean up the mirror) It was childish, V knew. Shattering his vanity (vanity 'the vanity of others runs counter to our taste only when it runs counter to our vanity' v.v.v.v.v.) mirror, then weeping (the last time he cried was at larkhill because he could not die he tried) like a child. (was i ever a child) Watching Evey walk out that door (not even looking back why won't she look back don't go don't go don'tgodon'tgodon) seemed surreal.

Like watching your heart burst from your chest and stroll away. (come back come back she said she would will she why would she) She was part of him. All the real parts. (now she is gone i shouldn't feel but it hurts how can it hurt ideas don't hurt don't go)

He cleaned up as if nothing had ever happened. (was it a dream last night was a dream life is but a dream) If he was calm, focused on organizing the Gallery, last night came back to him easily; like watching a movie, there was no feeling. A dark room. A tall man lying alone. A small, frail girl lying beside him. That white mask leering out into the darkness. The man sells his soul. V had no memories to fall back on, no experiences to compare it to. It began and ended in that bedroom, with Evey. It began and ended with her.

He was alone now, surrounded by the voices of the dead. (don't worry soon it won't matter i'll be there soon) But he had been alive, inarguably human last night. He had wanted and needed. The scent of her desire and the feel of her lean legs clenching around him seemed to alter everything. And the pleasure. He winced at the memory, then sped up his cleaning, his hands moving at an alarming rate. Papers and books were sorted, surfaces dusted.

V had experienced joy and pleasure. Pure, with no fancy words to dress it up. He had experienced something so honest it frightened him. And he did not deserve it. After what he had done, inadvertent though it might have been, he did not deserve that. He did not deserve to lose him, lose his PURPOSE in a bed with Evey. Because he had. For a time, he had not been an idea, a terrorist, even 'V', the only name he knew. He had simply been. He had never before, and would never again.

(she loved me last night she did i could feel it like i feel my piano or a knife that simply was it pity could it be pity no it was love but what is love i don't know love to live to love no evey i'm sorry stop stop stopstopstopstop i want it to STOP) V stopped. Stopped moving, even stopped breathing. His thoughts did not. For the first time in his life they progressed slowly, evenly. His mind was clear of chaos.

(i am in love with her. i have always been in love with her. i will always be in love with her. that is enough) He took a sharp, gasping breath. The knowledge made him feel suddenly very tired. He was not done cleaning. He walked into her room. Made her bed. (the last time) V paused, holding her pillow. It smelled of her. The only physical proof she had been there at all, besides her hands that he could still feel on his body.

Like a somnambulist, he carried the pillow from her room to her cell. He placed it on the floor where she had sat while waiting for her execution. (the look in her eyes) For a long time, he stared at the pillow. Finally, V lay down, pressing his mask so hard into the pillow he could feel the enamel cracking, and began to scream.

A/N: Quote by Friedrich Nietzsche


	4. Insomnia

Disclaimer: If V were mine, halfway through the movie someone in the audience would have said, 'Hey, why is that short girl tackling V and dragging him offscreen?' None of it is. Alan Moore, the Wachowski Brothers, David Lloyd, Vertigo, and men in scary business suits own V and Evey. I just think naughty thoughts and giggle to myself evilly. I am making no money off of this. I do this instead of my homework. Please do not sue me. I have no money, and my organs have been tainted by smoking and alcohol, making them unsaleable on the black market.

Quotes are listed at the bottom.

'He lay beside her, an insomniac with visions of vastness. He thought of desert stretches so huge no Chosen People could cross them. He counted grains of sand like sheep and knew his job would last forever. He thought of aeroplane views of wheatlands so high he couldn't see which way the wind was bending the stalks. Arctic territories and sled-track distances. Miles he would never cover because he could never abandon this bed.'

- Leonard Cohen

She stood behind V in the kitchen, her bag slung over her shoulder, watching him read. She had been awake when he had climbed from his bed (their bed), clearly believing her to be asleep. Evey hadn't slept that night, and she doubted she would be able to for a long time.

V hadn't turned the page since she had entered the room. It wouldn't have surprised Evey to discover that he had been sitting in the kitchen since he had left his bed, staring vacantly at the same page. He hadn't even heard her walk up behind him. If it hadn't been for the steady rise and fall of his chest, he might have been just another beautiful statue in the Gallery.

For a second, Evey felt her control slip, and she loved him. Loved him so fiercely that she wanted to rip open his shirt and carve her name into his chest, to remind him that she was there. As if either of them needed physical proof of last night (last night). Then she remembered what she had to do, and her eyes hardened. It was the same look she had given V when he was still her guard, and had ordered her execution. Walking over to him, stopping just by his shoulder, she broke the spell.

'Good book?' Her voice sounded like a stranger's. V's head jerked up slightly, but he did not turn to face her.

'Very.' V honestly could not remember what he had been reading. He knew he had a book in his hands, and it had words, but beyond that, his synapses did not seem to be firing correctly. It would be easier if he didn't look at her. Evey hovered by his side, as if silently agreeing with him.

'I have to leave.'

'Oh?' His tone was the same as if she had just announced that Shakespeare was English, or that V liked to blow up buildings. But with four words, V felt like she had ripped off his mask.

(i knew i knew is it because of last night last night oh lord but she wanted it i wanted it of course i wanted it how could i not want it i was a man last night not the idea the IDEA i wanted and she wanted she's changed her mind did i hurt her i could never hurt i have hurt her i could never hurt her like she hurts me just by being last night she was mine i was hers last night i belonged to something i was a part of something that was not about death or violence or hate or revenge)

'Did you hear me?' Evey moved to sit across the table from him. Although the mask was looking directly at her, she had a feeling he was miles and years away.

'Perfectly.' He put the book down, and laid his hands on the table, trying to appear impassive. 'Because of last night.' His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and his gloved hand clenched into a fist. At that moment, V wished Creedy and his men would burst into the Shadow Gallery guns blazing, just so he could kill and hurt and die all at once. Maybe if he timed it right, the sensation would be a dull echo of what he felt sitting at a table across from her.

'Not in the way you think.' Evey was suddenly struck by the distance between them. Last night they had been as close as humanly possible. The mask inclined slightly, and a heavy breath snuck out. Evey knew he didn't believe her. (if i tell him the truth i won't be able to leave i don't want to leave) She reached for his hand; he jerked it out of her reach. There was an awkward moment. 'That's why, V. Nothing has changed.'

(everything has changed) 'Did you think it would?' V sounded so angry. (am i angry i can't tell i can't feel i am watching a man who looks like me die) Evey smiled at him sadly. (don't evey don't you dare look at me like i exist)

'I guess it was silly of me to hope for a happy ending,' she said. V stoood up. Evey resisted the urge to touch him, to prove his solidity to herself. (that's why he wouldn't touch me. a wall has crumbled. he can't trust himself with me)

'There are no happy endings,' he said quietly. 'Because nothing ever ends.' (that's why that's why don't love me don't you dare the idea will live on i may end but not what i've done ideas don't die they don't love they don't feel then why does your every glance tear out my insides)

Evey nodded. (has there ever been a morning after conversation like this?) A quote suddenly shot through her mind, although she could not remember the author, or even the book. 'She knew she would fall in love with him every minute, every second, over and over, for the rest of her life.'

(don't leave don't leave don't leave get out get out get out i can't do what i must with you here if you walk away i'll lose whatever i have left i have nothing left don't leave just go it's the mask the mask the FUCKING mask you will never know me but you know me better than i ever will i will never get past this mask)

Suddenly, something inside V seemed to collapse, although nothing visible happened. Evey watched him, wishing everything didn't hurt. V looked around.

'This is not the right setting for so auspicious an exit. The Wurlitzer, I believe, is an appropriate venue for such a farewell. Make sure you have everything, and let's try this again, shall we?' V made a dramatic half-bow. For a moment, Evey fantasized about staying. (if i don't say it again, we can pretend i never did. and i can't stay here) Instead, she nodded weakly to his suggestion. V spun sharply on his heel and walked out of the kitchen. After a few moments, she heard him shuffling through the songs on the Wurlitzer.

He was right. This first attempt had failed. It hadn't worked. She didn't feel like she was leaving. So, ever the vaudeville lover, V was giving her a second chance. To make the performance perfect. To pretend it didn't hurt. (there is no stopping this. he has been inside me, but even that wasn't enough) Enough for what, she couldn't say. Evey went into her room, and picked up Valerie's letter. She touched it gently. (like i touched him) It didn't matter who wrote it, she would still give it back. She couldn't carry any more pieces of him with her. The bed was still unmade; but she had stalled long enough. A song began on the Wurlitzer; V was ready. Evey took a deep breath, and walked out to say goodbye.

QUOTES:

There are no happy endings, because ever ends. – 'The Last Unicorn'

She knew she would fall in love with him every minute, every second, over and over, for the rest of her life. – 'Leaving Las Vegas'


	5. Triggers

Disclaimer: If V were mine, I would not be writing this story. I would be living OUT the stories, with a lot less death and a lot more wild nakedness. Since I am writing this story, V is not mine. Nor is Evey, who I would have to lock outside the room anyway. Please don't sue me. I have a very bad cold, and lack a V to make me tea. That rhymed. Haha. And Alan Moore owns one V, and the Wachowski Brothers own another. SO WHY CAN'T I HAVE SEX-ADDICT!V?! HUH?! Sorry. I am very tired. Anyway, no suing of the Lauren.

"Ideas pull the trigger, but instinct loads the gun."

- Don Marquis

In her few weeks in the Shadow Gallery, Evey had come to recognize V's moods. Not necessarily understand them, (who could understand HIM?) but she could guess. She knew that when he walked with a long, lazy stride, he was in a good mood. When he hummed or sang softly to himself, he would be particularly happy. These were the days she did not fear him; he seemed less like a killer terrorist and more like an eccentric librarian.

On these days, Evey found herself enjoying his company. If she wasn't careful, she found herself forgetting he was her captor. He would race around the Shadow Gallery, giving her piles of books to read, chattering away with an enthusiasm that broke her heart. (how long has it been since he talked to anyone he wasn't threatening or killing?). He would cook elaborate meals and watch her eat them eagerly. She actually missed him when he was gone. (this is not normal. when other girls are kidnapped by masked terrorists and held in their underground lairs, they hate their captor. at least, they should. should i?)

Then there were the bad days. She knew of the bad days before she even saw him. She would trudge sleepily into the kitchen, and find her food waiting for her. Delicious as always, but V was not present to watch her eat. She knew this was a bad day as soon as she saw her scrambled egg, but no masked man bustling about the kitchen in one of his inexplicable aprons. Evey sighed, and began to eat.

She found V obsessively arranging a huge wall of books. His body was tense, his stance aggressive. He was not humming. The whole Gallery was unnervingly silent. He paused when she walked in, then without a word continued moving the books around with an intensity that was alarming.

Evey was stuck. She could go get a book from another room, but the one she wanted was in here. At the same time, she in no way wanted to attract V's attention. Deciding to wait until he had finished (at the rate he's going, he'll have organized the entire library in less than an hour), she headed for the telly.

There was nothing on. Evey didn't want to watch a movie, or the news. She wanted V to stop pacing around like a caged lion. She wanted him to talk to her. She wanted any sign that his mood would improve. She heard the pound of his boots on the floor as he stomped from one room to the next. Evey sighed. (apparently his mood will not be lightening any time soon)

She channel-surfed aimlessly. V kept walking through the room, as if on a mission, when in fact he seemed to merely be moving things around. Pictures were rearranged. Books reorganized. The piano cleaned. Then, out of the blue, he snapped at her.

'Is it necessary to change the channel every few seconds, Evey?' (he sounds annoyed) Rather than answer, she simply placed the remote beside her. Whatever was on would have to suffice. Evey heard him let out one of his noises (definitely annoyed. what have i done?) and walked out. (this is not about me. he is embarrassed. he dislikes me seeing him this way.)

The channel she had stopped on turned out to be fairly interesting. It was a 'documentary' on America after the second Civil War had broken out. Evey knew by now that most of it was lies, but she enjoyed seeing how the truth had been altered.

V did not appear to notice (keep busy keep busy) her choice of viewing material for quite a while. He passed through the room half a dozen times before he stopped behind her. Evey had her legs tucked under her, and was focused intently on the 'eye-witness accounts' of English soldiers who had tried to help save Americans from their war-ravaged land.

'It was a bloody nightmare!' the TV tittered. 'We was almost there, to the shelter, when the whole thing burst into flames! A bloody bomb went off; we tried to save them, of course, but there was no chance.'

The scene cut to a picture of a burning building, with screaming people running out of it. Some of them were on fire. Evey didn't doubt that there had been a bomb. At the same time, she didn't believe for a second that Sutler had been trying to save anybody.

'A sudden explosion? Good thing they just happened to have a camera there,' she chuckled. There was no response. Evey turned around to look at V. His mask was turned to the television. He didn't appear to have heard her. His whole body suddenly trembled violently. 'V?'

Just like that, he bolted from the room. Evey was stunned. (what the bloody hell is going on? do i go after him? do i stay here?) She flipped off the TV quickly. After a moment, she decided it would be best to see where he had gone. (at least so i can keep out of his way. what the hell just happened?)

His hands. (oh fuck. oh FUCK) She had seen them that first morning. But it was hard to think of him as damaged or weak. Crazy? Probably. (maybe. definitely.) But it couldn't be as bad as all that, could it? (he can move and fight and kill. he is stronger and faster and more stealthy than anyone i have ever seen.) she was aware that his hands were burned rather terribly; but it did not occur to her, except in odd moments when she accidentally touched him and encountered only leather or silk. (he probably thought i was mocking him.) she began to look for him in earnest. (oh, FUCK.)

On other days, such an experience wouldn't have bothered V at all. He had seen worse (in person i was there for worse) and done worse himself. But he had had another dream last night; when he woke up, he was almost always in a foul mood.

The dreams were always different, but always the same. She was always there. Sometimes in the lift, sometimes on the couch, the roof. Usually his room. And when he woke up alone, it seemed to determine he would be sullen for at least the morning. As if that wasn't enough, he had been unable to find his copy of i Hearts Of Darkness /i . This had spurred his organizing. Then he had nearly knocked himself out on a figure he had just 'acquired.' So he was redecorating. If he kept his hands busy, his mind on simple and doable tasks, his rage and frustration would usually wear down by early evening. He was already feeling guilty for being so short with Evey.

So to see that program on that day (there are no coincidences just cruel jokes from a god that does not exist) after a particularly vivid dream was unfortunate. He had only stopped to watch with Evey in an attempt to be polite. But the visuals, as graphic as they were (not larkhill was it larkhill i was never in front like that insideinside only no it was day there larkhill burned at night burn burn burn) would not have inspired such a reaction.

It was Evey. Her seeing that, and having no idea. Just a story. She had seen his hands, of course. but she had never mentioned it since, out of manners or fear, he could not know (disgusted). Then her comment. He could have braved it, if it hadn't been for that tone. (pity pity and contempt and derision larkhill fire burning)

V was on the floor, curled up in a black ball, rocking spastically back and forth.

Evey checked his open bedroom. No. The kitchen. Nothing. She stopped after a moment of frantic running. He hadn't left (his cloak and hat are here, his knives.) Tried the door that was always locked, the one that V never seemed to notice. Still locked. (he's in there. where 'there' is, i don't know.) She banged on the door. 'V? Are you all right?'

V was watching himself twice over. One of him was on the floor of a bare cell. The other him was rocking wildly back and forth in a recreation of a bare cell. One his was screaming in pain and fear. The other was tumbling through his own mind. It was, to put it mildly, bizarre.

V was aware that Evey was banging on the door. (go away go away) He was aware that this was not HIS cell (burned it burned it all blew it up burned it down). He knew this logically. But his mind - the broken and twisted bits that he had only managed to classify, not cure - never was especially logical, and at this moment had lost any sort of contact with reality.

Evey sat down by the door, stumped. She could hear him moving around in here. He was in there. She was out here. He could not hurt her or yell at her or frighten her. She might have hurt him, but why should she care? (why DO i care?) She walked back to the library, picked up a book at random, and sat in a chair near the door. (i am worried. i should not be, i should find some joy in his pain. i am his prisoner. but i am still worried.)

V was not V. Not the V Evey knew. He was not, period. Or, he was 'the man in Room Five.' Or, he was 'Five.' Or, he was 'pathetic little shit.' Or, he was 'hold him still, i can't get in.' Mostly, he was waiting to die.

The first time it happened, he fought. Fought with a strength he could not believe he possessed. But there were three guards. And by then, nobody even acknowledged when he screamed.

He didn't tell the doctor. He didn't tell her anything anymore. He didn't know anything. He knew he hadn't wanted that. He knew that his body and mind had rebelled against that. He knew he had lost.

The second time it happened, he fought. And the third. Every time. Every fucking time. No matter how many guards. No matter how they beat him. It was the only point of pride he had. He never stopped fighting them, even though he had already lost.

(i still fight i fight every day and it did not kill me they could not kill me those guards are dead dead dead i am the devil and i come to do the devil's work i am not dead i lived my last inch last inch)

(they didn't take my last inch i am here i have survived everything and i still fight and soon i will rest and all this will die with me)

V stilled. He was not in his cell. He was in a reconstruction of a cell. He had built this. He had made these choices. He had chosen to fight. They had chosen to hurt him. He had chosen how they would die. For every action.

He had a rather bad headache, and was stiff from having been curled up so tightly. He stretched slowly, and stood. Cracked his neck. But he was fine. He had contained the pain. The pain had a purpose. It did not control him or define him. After making sure his mask and wig were in place, V walked out of the cell.

Evey had fallen asleep some time ago; the book lay forgotten by her hand. V looked at her as he carefully locked the door behind him, then picked up the book and placed it back on the shelf.

Evey woke up to find V at the books again. (oh shit, are we back to that?) She spoke hesitantly.

'V?' He spun around, clasping his hands before him.

"Hello, Evey. Have a good rest?' He sounded... fine. He sounded like V. Evey wondered briefly if she hadn't dreamt the whole thing. She knew she hadn't. But it was a lovely ideas.

'Yes, thank you. Are you all right?' V chuckled softly under the mask, and Evey felt a flash of annoyance.

'Oh, yes, I'm perfectly fine.' Then, before she could point out that less than an hour ago he had been pretty much the opposite of fine, he was moving to the kitchen. 'Are you hungry, my dear? I find myself quite famished! I daresay we missed supper.'

Evey watched him disappear into the kitchen, her mouth agape. It was like there were two Vs: Angry V and Happy V. (happy v just killed angry v and is now cooking me dinner. angry v had yelled at me and brain-snapped. happy v is just as dangerous. maybe more. i cannot read happy v.)

Evey walked into the kitchen slowly. V was humming merrily in that damned apron, slicing vegetables for a stew. (he's crazy)

(i need to get out of here)


End file.
